


Fifty-Two Yards of White Satin

by octobertown



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-30
Updated: 2007-04-30
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:13:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobertown/pseuds/octobertown
Summary: It’s a live or die scenario at the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children when it comes to Jean’s wedding dress, but that doesn’t stop certain individuals from tempting fate.





	Fifty-Two Yards of White Satin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xenokattz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenokattz/gifts).



> Written for Xenokattz in 2007 and posted originally under the nom de plume Lucia de'Medici at livejournal and fanfiction.net. Reposted here as archival work in X-Men comicverse after an anon brought it up by mention (and neither of us could remember the title.) It took a little digging through my writing archives to find it, and frankly, I'd forgotten that I'd written anything like it at all. I've always been angst > fluff, so it's an oddity in my collection of old works.

You would think, given the Professor’s immeasurable wealth, and the contacts the X-Men kept, someone would know a dressmaker in the Salem Centre environs.

No.

No, that would be a poor thing to suggest altogether, thought Remy LeBeau as he propped himself in the doorway to the parlour. The women had taken it upon themselves to tend to Jean and her needs, and the men had pretty much left them to their own devices. In fact, they had received explicit orders to “keep out of the parlour on pain of blindness and severe psionically-induced migraine,” and for the most part, the boys had steered clear – but Remy?

He pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at the empty room at large.

Remy didn’t understand the phrase, “Keep out.”

Part of the language barrier, lost in translation, he reasoned.

With the wedding less than a month off, Cyclops was utterly useless despite his urgent pleas to keep up the level of productivity he usually maintained as preparations continued around him. Like an animal caught in the eye of a hurricane, Scooter was showing the signs of being battered around by the gale known as Jubilee, Psylocke and Storm. No pun.

Accordingly, Remy was avoiding him at all costs. He wasn’t about to get swept away with the tempest that had decided to create Jean’s dress themselves, and as far as he knew, those harpies were hounding Scott about his tux. Life as an X-Man rarely left time for fittings, as it were.

He tipped his head to the side. “So dis is what all de fuss is about?” he hummed.

All the money in the world to have the task executed by professionals, and yet, there it was: Fifty two yards of white satin spread across the couches and coffee tables to avoid wrinkling, left untouched because the women couldn’t decide what would be a more flattering cut to suit an already beautiful Jean Grey.

Remy snorted, appraising all that fabric, gleaming and sheer in the summer sun that spilled from the windows.

So much fuss over something that would just spend the night on the floor anyway.

It piled across the loveseat, falling over the back of the divan in a messy rumple. Whoever had left it must have not realized that the smooth, cold material would slide right off the leather upholstery.

If Stormy saw the makings for Jean’s dress in that condition… Remy swallowed. Well, let’s just say he wouldn’t want to be within a five mile radius.

He’d seen what Ororo’s ball lightening could do.

“Not pretty,” he muttered, peeking over his shoulder and assuring himself that the hall was clear.

Creeping across the room, Remy tracked his way over several boxes of pins and needles, tip-toed neatly around a stack of scattered drawings, tape measures, and a sewing box – and stopped dead.

A sniff; it was barely audible, but a sniff nonetheless.

The fabric falling over the couch moved a fraction of an inch, and Remy strained to hear, rooted to the spot.

There was no _way_ he was going to take the fall for anyone snivelling over the gown in its pre-dress stages. He liked his extremities attached where they were, and frankly, he could live without a week spent in the med bay should Psylocke get a hold of him.

Another sniff, and again, the fabric moved. Remy sprang, vaulting over the back of the couch and toppling over the person on the other side.

“Hey!” The voice had a smoky edge, lilting and choked just the same. Distinctly feminine, and all too familiar.

The satin piled on top of the pair of them, falling over Remy’s head and obscuring his vision. In the mounds of white that blotted out the room, infinitely soft and sleek to the touch as he tried to dig through it, gradually, he became aware of the soft warmth of a body spread beneath him.

Suddenly, the threat of something much more dangerous than Storm or Psylocke made itself apparent.

Remy ran the odds: sniffling, Southern drawl, unmade wedding dress belonging to someone else. Ten to one, at best.

Pulling himself to his knees, he tried to peel away some of the covering that obscured Rogue from view, and only managing to get himself more tangled.

“ _Chére_?” he asked tentatively, his hands searching, and coming to rest on her sides.

Rogue shifted beneath him uncomfortably, though he still couldn’t see her.

“Well if this ain’t awkward.” She laughed, but it was too quick and too sharp to be natural. “Hi, Remy.”

“ _Mignonne_ , where are y’ under there? M’ blind here.”

“Stop strugglin’, sugah. Ya reach out and brush my skin, and we’re both gonna be in a whole world of pain for gettin’ stuck like this,” she replied throatily.

“Rogue?” He paused, listening intently to catch the light rasp of Rogue’s breath. She didn’t disappoint him as she took a shuddering breath. “Are y’ cryin’?”

She sniffed again, pawing at the satin over her face. Remy felt the press of her hands against his chest, and winced at her muffled sound of surprise as she drew back sharply.

“Ah just – oh this is so _stupid_ …”

“ _Chére_ , stop movin’, y’ just getting’ y’self more mixed up. We gonna get outta dis, and den y’ gonna tell m’ what’s wrong, _oui_?”

“Ah – Ah can’t. Please don’t, Remy, Ah mean it. Ah – oh _lord_ …”

“Can’t be dat bad f’ y’ t’ be all flustered, Roguey,” he breathed, scooting down a little and tugging at the fabric insistently.

She pulled back, yanking some of the satin with her. It collected in a little bunch where her fist gripped it, and Remy wrapped his hand around the knot formed in all the white surrounding those delicate, lethal little fingers. He chuckled, rubbing his thumb against the warmth of her wrist, feeling the fluttering pulse beneath the satin. Gently, though not without some persistent tugging, he pulled it to his face and pressed his cheek into her palm. Gradually, he felt Rogue’s hand relax, cupping his chin gently.

“Y’ know, f’ two people who can equally take down just about anyt’ing, it’s almost funny dat de pair of us are getting’ smothered by all dis material.”

“It ain’t _material_ , swamp rat,” she said tiredly, her voice coming out slightly strained. “It’s a _weddin’_ dress.”

“Not yet, _p’tit_ ,” he replied, unable to restrain the suggestive, laden tone that accompanied his next words. “Far as I see, it’s a blanket dat got too big f’ de bed.”

Rogue sobbed, and instantly, Remy knew what the problem was.

“Awe, _chére_ , m’ sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“No! No, it ain’t that. Well, maybe a little, but… Damnit, Remy, stop tuggin’ on the dress! Ah’m not wearin’ gloves under here!”

“Anyt’ing else y’ not wearin’ under dere, Roguey?” he asked playfully, his fingers sliding against her side, finding the curve of her hip. There was too much between them, but that wasn’t unusual.

“…”

“Rogue?” he asked, his voice cracking. Remy cleared his throat. “Anna Marie?” he whispered, as if her true name was some secret code shared between them. It did the trick.

She sniffed, and began laughing. “Oh _gawd_ … This is _so_ embarrassin’!”

Remy’s eyebrows shot up, and he renewed his struggle with the satin again. It slid between his fingers, as below, he felt Rogue buck into him as she attempted to gather the cloth around herself.

“I can _hear_ y’ blushin’, Roguey,” he insisted, grinning broadly. “What were y’ doin’ before I found y’?”

“Nothin’! Really. There wasn’t anyone in the room, and Ah thought that maybe, ya know…”

“Stop quibblin’ _p’tit_ , you're cryin’ and laughin’ and if I’m t’inking what m’ not supposed t’ be t’inking – because dat would be improper -- keepin’ me from seein’ y’ _belle visage_ isn’t y’ only concern, neh?”

He pinched down with his thumb and forefinger, latching onto a lean strip of flesh and eliciting a squeal.

“Gambit, Ah said _stop_!”

Remy yanked on the fabric, pulling it from between Rogue’s straining fingers even as she struggled to hold it in place.

“Y’ can scream ‘uncle’ all y’ want, but y’ best not be teasin’ dis poor _homme_ underneath all dis fluff while wearin’ not’ing but a smile. Y’ know how much dat hurts me, _chére_?”

Finally catching a handhold, he began winding it around his fists, pulling it with him as Rogue kicked out, unsuccessfully trying to hurl him off with the leverage. With the yards rumpling around him, he gave one final tug, and a tuft of curly red emerged from the miles of gleaming white.

Rogue scowled, pursing her lower lip and tossing the bundle at him. She crossed her arms over her uniform-clad chest, long sleeves covering pale skin, except for one delicate ‘v’ of ivory exposed at her throat where she’d undone the zipper.

“Satisfied, Swamp rat?” she demanded huffily.

Remy blinked, stuffing the fabric down into a tight ball, and suddenly all too aware that their horseplay had left him straddling her hips. The slightest motion of Rogue crossing her ankles was enough to alert him to their near-indecent proximity.

He cleared his throat. Rogue turned away, swiping at her cheeks with a bare hand; the other she used to unconsciously pluck at a fraying thread poking out between Remy’s knuckles.

“Y’ get dressed damned fast, girl. Musta just missed de show,” he murmured in awe.

She snorted inelegantly, yanking at the zipper with one hand and swatting at his knee with the other. Even with such a fast, embarrassed flush spreading across her cheeks, the flare of anger evident as she tried to wriggle from beneath him, Remy couldn’t help but stare.

Rogue’s hair spread out beneath her head like a fiery halo, it was tousled and wild, and with that pout curving her lower lip –

“If ya _must_ know, it feels _good_ against my skin. Alright?” she spat.

It looked good too, he thought. Ripe, and soft, and sweet – delicious, forbidden fruit.

Rogue gave up struggling with her uniform, only managing to yank the zipper down another two tantalizing inches. Frustrated, she concentrated on shoving at his knees.

“And there wasn’t anyone _here_ , so Ah don’t see what _harm_ there was in just seeing what it _felt_ like for a few minutes,” she continued dejectedly, grimacing when she found she couldn’t shove him off.

That gave Remy pause – the strangled, petrified sort that sent a jolt from his stomach straight through to his toes. Curiously, he found that in its aftermath, it tingled pleasantly with possibility.

Instead of hearing what Rogue said, he understood the mournful downwards lilt of her inflection, the small frown tugging her mouth southwards, the words strangled before they could reach his ears.

He didn’t smirk, nor did he notice his heart beat kick up another two notches.

The white satin gleamed, coaxing out the rose in her cheeks, making Rogue seem for the entire world like a blushing bride should – if the regular sort of bride looked like a pissed off alley cat who’d just been dunked in a toilet bowl, that is.

“Would ya just get up, already?” she howled, her chin crinkling a little as she slapped her hands back to the ground.

But Rogue wasn’t a regular _anything_ , and that had never stopped him before.

Remy wet his lips, unmindful of the fact that his mouth had suddenly gone dry.

“Would ya just do _something_ instead of starin’ at me like that, Cajun?” Her voice wilted, cracking across one of her many nicknames for him, in the way he’s always found endearing.

She looked beautiful in white, he thought, moving backwards slowly to let her up.

The fabric caught in her fists as Rogue shuffled from beneath him to stand shakily. With a tug, she’d pulled it from his hands, trying to look anywhere but at him. Lifting it, she held it before her with a frown, staring sadly at the meters of cloth they’d successfully destroyed in a matter of minutes.

“It’s ruined,” she murmured, crestfallen.

Remy, still on his knees, reached out to her gently, cupping the backs of her knees through the satin, and drew her forwards. Carefully, he slid his hands up the back of her thighs, tracing over her hips, and then to her waist to mould the unmade gown to her curves.

“Remy, what –”

“S’ okay, _chére,”_ he murmured, smiling gently. “I buy you a better one.”

Uncertain at first, and slowly growing with the certainty of his words, Rogue’s smile made Jean’s white wedding dress look little more than a dingy grey.

_-fin-_


End file.
